Broken Heart Disease
by Rydia Highwind
Summary: Post MGS2 - It's been a year since the Big Shell. It's business as usual for Philanthropy, until they meet up with a new band of anti-Patriots led by someone they never expected.


**Broken Heart Disease**  
_by Rydia Highwind _  
  
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Chapter 1   
  
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Manhattan summers aren't warm, they're sticky. You don't complain about the heat, you cry about it. Noontime in the summer is the only time all day or night, all year long that the streets quiet down and you're lucky to find a handful of poor souls outside on such a day. It's not entirely uncommon for someone to break a fire hydrant and everyone has a water party until the cops show up to clean it up. The nights cool to the point of barely tolerable, and you learn to sleep with the hum of an electric fan set on high five inches away from your face.  
  
That's sort of how it was going for me the night we first got word of these issues. I was stretched out on the old and not particularly comfortable sofa, praying to any listening deity that a steady breeze might filter through the open window so that I could turn off the fan that blew more dust into my face than cold air. The television was on but I don't remember what I was watching, which probably means that I wasn't really watching it. I do that sometimes. I like having background for my thoughts. It's harder to get carried away to the point of no return then.  
  
I remember quite well how Hal had stumbled out of his bedroom, about as flustered as he gets. His glasses were sliding down his nose nearly constantly, like they always did in the summer, as sweaty as even he got, and let me tell you, that man is nothing but skin and bones. Not an ounce of fat on him anywhere. If it's hot enough to make a pasty skinned, 130 pound computer geek sweat, you know it's hot. But that's beside the point. So he stumbled out, pushed his glasses back up his nose, and gave me a look that blaringly spelled out the word 'urgency', while my fan spat out a cloud of dust that was quite likely about the size of Texas.  
  
Gee, I love summertime.  
  
Once I finished coughing and sputtering, I rather blindly (the dust got in my eyes too) followed him into his bedroom. He was talking but I don't remember really what he was saying, something about Mei Ling and email and god knows what else. When Hal gets excited, I don't really understand a lot of what he says. Of course, the first thing I noticed about his bedroom when I could actually see again, were the four fans positioned in various places around his computer that seemed to be missing its case. I don't go in his room much, since it's more like a cave than a bedroom. It's got a totally different aura from the rest of the apartment. I don't know if it's because of his computer or the fact that it's got no windows and he never turns the light on, but it just feels different. I think it was even cooler in there that day, which wouldn't surprise me, since he had stolen the majority of the fan collection we'd built up living here for a good five years.  
  
I probably said something about that too, knowing me, and he probably ignored me. That's how we get along so well, see. I act like a dumb ass and he pretends not to notice. He was pretty frantic then anyway; I doubt he even heard me. Which was probably a good thing. When he gets excited, you say something wrong and you get the patented Angry Hal Stare. And it's a bit scarier than it sounds, I assure you. I mean, intimidating isn't exactly Hal's middle name, but he can be scary if you have to live with him. Maybe he couldn't break my arm or anything, but he could program my alarm clock to go off at four in the morning every morning and not fix it. Or worse yet, he could break my toaster. I can barely work the camera he gives me on missions; I don't even want to think about fixing a toaster.  
  
Anyway, there was some website or something flashing on Hal's monitor. In the center of the page there was an amateur photograph of a half destroyed building, blackened by ash and soot, and the contents of the place were scattered around, demolished. But what really caught my attention were the words painted in angry red spray paint on one of the walls that had managed to stay standing. I remember blinking a few times, wondering if there was still dust in my eyes. But no, it was unmistakably there in big, bold print, three words I never thought I'd hear together again: 'Sons of Liberty.'  
  
"What the hell is this?" I asked him, the situation suddenly a bit more serious.  
  
Hal was frowning, sighing, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Mei Ling emailed me the link to this site. Apparently, there's a small group going around taking out Patriot buildings calling themselves the Sons of Liberty," he grimly explained in a voice that was way too calm to be the same flustered engineer who had fallen out of his bedroom a minute ago. "We haven't heard anything about them because the Patriots seem to have been covering their efforts up, keeping it off the news and such. Apparently, we're pretty lucky even to see this. Mei Ling hacked these out of what's left of Arsenal using the codes I gave her that we got."  
  
He scrolled down then, more pictures of this group's work--destroyed buildings, burned and demolished, and always the same red paint on a standing wall. There were maybe six or seven different buildings. I remember feeling quite disgusted with the matter. I'm not exactly a fan of the Patriots, but as far as I'm concerned, there's not a whole lot that I can do about them. They're almost a necessary evil, really. If they were to be taken out of power, the whole world would erupt into chaos and anarchy. Going about and naming yourselves after a group of dead anti-Patriots and destroying Patriot buildings is most certainly not the way to go about things. I'm not saying I know a better way or anything, but I just can't see something like this ever succeeding.  
  
"What's this got to do with us?" I asked him, hoping to high hell I wasn't going to have to deal with another one of my interesting family members. I swear to god, I have the most dysfunctional family that's ever existed.  
  
"Right now, nothing," he admitted, closing out of the website. "But think about it, Dave, if they want to take on the Patriots, they're going to have to have some heavy fire power. Heavier than the SEMTEX they used on these buildings."  
  
"You mean metal gear." I really hate metal gears.  
  
"Right. In which case, we should probably try to get as much information on them as we can." Hal was sounding way too practical, which generally means he isn't going to come out of his room for the next three days and I get to remind him to eat and sleep and other such things normal people do on their own. "If we /do/ run into them on the field, I want to be prepared."  
  
Hal did indeed stay in his room for a while, though I believe it was actually two and a half days rather than three. It turned out that there wasn't a lot of information concerning this new band of the Sons of Liberty. It seemed that either the Patriots didn't even know exactly what was going on, or they were hiding their information so well that even Hal couldn't find it. Either is a possibility, really. There's a hell of a lot of information for him to sort through, and he is just one man. Mei Ling helps sometimes, but she was busy with something or another at that point.  
  
What he did dig up wasn't substantial enough for me to go into here, especially since I have a strong suspicion I'm about to find out a whole lot more about these Sons of Liberty here in a few minutes. This situation is eerily similar to a certain incident on a tanker from about three years ago, except, thank god, I'm not on a boat this time. There has been no bungee jumping to get here (that would have been Hal's idea, I'd just like to point out), there will no swimming to leave here. Well, I'm sort of hoping not anyway, though after Big Shell last year, I'm not willing to discount the possibility. Forget for a moment that this is a supposedly stable ground factory in the middle of an empty plain.  
  
But here I sit, kneeling behind a pile of shipping crates near the entrance to the facility, watching through my scope as camouflaged soldiers take out every sentry in the area, and I can only assume they're doing the same on the rest of the base. It's not a very big plant, after all, and it wouldn't take an extreme amount of manpower to take the outer grounds. Otacon had made a calculated guess that this place was Patriot-run, and so I really have no doubts in my mind as to the identity of these attackers. I'm looking now for the leader of this troupe, all the while laying out my findings for my partner back in a small van parked a half mile away from here and monitoring my progress over his laboratory on wheels.  
  
-Their equipment is all American made,- I think through my codec. The device is really quite handy, if not a little odd to get used to. Thinking in a certain direction and having a machine interpret your brain waves as words was pretty disturbing to me when they introduced the system. But it's really a lot nicer than speaking out loud while I'm doing my best to be quiet in ever other aspect possible. -I haven't heard any of them use a foreign accent yet either. They're American, all right.-  
  
-Makes sense,- Otacon replies, his voice slightly tinny and distorted as the nanomachines I have injected in my bloodstream for this mission directly stimulate my eardrums, creating a sound only I can hear. I don't know how that all works, but I'm willing to trust that it does and that the UN isn't really trying to kill me or something. -They're working against the Patriots, and the Patriots rule the US. Why would anyone else be with them? And a group like this most likely doesn't have the funds to hire a mercenary group. They're pretty small-time from what I can tell.-  
  
-Got me. They've taken over at least this area. None of the sentries even had a chance to scream. They know what they're doing.-  
  
-Military men?-  
  
-Looks like it. Or trained like them,- I add, although the former is more likely. The Patriots are practically invisible, and for the most part, the only people who know of their existence have served in a branch of the military, and most of those have been burned once or twice. These guys aren't here for fun, they're here for revenge. -You got anything else for me?-  
  
-Not much. A partial ID on the leader,- he replies quickly, and I can envision his grayish green eyes scanning the computer readout in front of him. -The Patriots seem to know him well. They call him 'Project JP-5786,' whatever that means.-  
  
-Project?- That sounds great. A pet project of the Patriots who got a mind of his own and now runs a complete organization demanding revenge. I've run into a few of those in the past. I'm almost afraid to find out more about him. -Well, at least we know his motive then. And what better way for revenge than to step on the Patriot's toes using their own model of metal gear?-  
  
-Sounds about right. It doesn't look like they're too worried about him, though.- There is a slight pause in the transmission, and I watch a few more of the 'Sons of Liberty' enter in through the brand new gate they cut conveniently into the fence. -I can't access any further information on the guy; you're going to have to go in on your own.-  
  
-It won't be the first time.- With that, I cut the transmission. It's time to get to work.  
  
I don't find it exceedingly difficult to slip by the outside sentries. I have the cover of darkness and nearing twenty years of field experience backing me up, and these guys weren't cut out for sentry duty. I can feel their air of excitement, and they don't really expect anyone to be coming in, especially not so soon. I make it inside without a hitch, the guards none the wiser. It's almost not fair to them that I arrived so soon before they did, and really, what're the chances of this happening? God knows how long the Patriots have had a handle on this building, and yet, two sets of intruders, the same night.  
  
We received the information on the new model of metal gear the Patriots are hosting here more than a fortnight ago, through what I assume were the usual channels. I don't deal with the information gathering pre-mission. That's Hal's job. I'm just the one who handles the grunt work and the clean up. Hal sometimes ends up coming on-site with me, though that's something of a rarity. We tend to work the best each doing what we do best, and for Hal, that's not running around a bunch of guys with guns. That, fortunately or not, is my forte. I've tried to figure out some of what he does, to find out a little bit more about computers and all that jazz, and let me tell you, I know I didn't miss my true calling as an engineer, that's for sure.  
  
But regardless of all that, the fact that this is all going on the same time Philanthropy decides to go in is a little too coincidental for me. Unless there's a certain reason to be infiltrating tonight, there shouldn't be /two/ groups going in at once. Of course, that also works on the plus side for me, since they probably are in the same mindset, that they should very well be the only ones here. That'd explain why the guards seem far more relaxed than they should be. But if they somehow got the wind of the fact that /I/ was going to be here tonight, well, that could be bad. The Patriots generally leave us alone since most of the time, as we're taking out metal gears that would end up annoying them anyway. But they've been known to take potshots at me, specifically.  
  
Concealing myself in the corner of the empty room I entered into, I quickly bring up my codec, tapping behind my right ear to switch on the tiny green monitor displaying directly on my retinas, and dial the thing to the frequency 141.12, Otacon's number. The avatar of engineer's face pops up almost immediately. -What do you need, Snake?- he asks, a bit surprised that I've called him back so quickly.  
  
-Otacon, why did we pick tonight to come in here?- I ask him bluntly.  
  
-I know what you're thinking and it's not as coincidental as you think,- he replies quickly. -It took a week to clear things with the UN, and another week to receive the supplies for this. After that, this and tomorrow are the nights with the lowest security all month. Some sort of convention or something, it seems.-  
  
Grunting into the codec, I reply, -Sounds like a trap to me.-  
  
-It could be,- Otacon conceded, and I sort of feel like strangling him for not bringing this up before. -But remember, it's not a trap for you, necessarily. In fact, it probably isn't. Just watch your back, Snake. You're good enough to stay out of it if there is something.-  
  
He signs off before I can respond. /If there is something./ He says that like there isn't going to be anything. The Sons of Liberty need a metal gear, and there just happens to be a convention of some sort taking away some of the guards on a Patriot controlled building housing a metal gear. How blatantly convenient. Way /too/ convenient. It's going to be a fun night. Even if it wasn't a trap, I'd have to beat these guys to the metal gear and disable it before they even got there. As it stands, I still need to take out this metal gear, before or after the Patriots have their fun with this group, which is an incident I most likely don't want to get tangled in. The similarities between this and that damn tanker are way too great in number. Fortunately, I haven't seen any cyphers yet.  
  
The metal gear stored here isn't exactly public knowledge. In fact, it's pretty classified, when it comes down to it. Any organization producing a metal gear knows better than to let the information out that they are indeed producing one. Philanthropy isn't the only organization working toward the disarmament of all metal gears, and the Patriots aren't stupid. The fact that Otacon found it doesn't surprise me in the slightest, but if this is a trap, the information is probably presented in a way that's more easily findable. I doubt this batch of Sons of Liberty has an Emmerich working on their side. Unless, of course, Otacon has more long-lost siblings he never told me about.  
  
Meanwhile, I've been making my way slowly and cautiously through the complex. I don't have a lot of time to spare, since it would be advisable to simply beat the infiltrating group to the metal gear and take it out before they can steal it. But even if I don't beat them there, there's still time to take it out. It's not easy to steal a metal gear, after all, no matter how good you are. You still need a way to get the damn thing out, and you probably don't want anyone to see you. I'm not sure how they plan to accomplish this, but I suppose we'll see.  
  
The basements to these places have proved to generally be the best place to house a metal gear, and this is soon confirmed by Otacon. The other group of intruders seems set on going down as well, and I can only assume that they have the same information that Otacon has. Therefore, I let him know that they seem to be using the same source and that anything interesting he finds, he should let me know immediately. This of course is met with an assurance that he tells me /everything/ I need to know. I have to fight from rolling my eyes, I really do. I've been through the 'need to know basis' thing far too many times /not/ to be wary, even if this is Otacon we're talking about.  
  
The complex is simple in design, and therefore so is the basement. I can follow the same pathway straight through, to get to the large room at the rear where it seems the metal gear is being stored. The strange thing is the simple fact that I seem to have left the Sons of Liberty completely behind me. The guards here are very obviously of a different variety than the somewhat disorganized group I'm supposed to be following in. They definitely aren't from the same group. They also seem to be much more alert and on the lookout than the sentries posted by the Sons of Liberty group. These are the guys guarding Metal Gear. It's obvious from their demeanor. They've got something higher at stake. They've got a lot of experience behind them. I have to be careful here.  
  
Finding a lull in the sneaking action and small place to hide, I kneel down soundlessly, once again tapping on the hidden switch to the codec monitor and give Otacon a ring. He answers right away. -Otacon, I need to know if there are any other ways to get to where Metal Gear is being stored,- I tell him mentally, keeping an eye out for any wandering sentry coming my way. -The entire group seems to have skipped this part of the mission or something. This is all Patriot controlled, and I haven't seen any of the Liberty group since I got into the basement.-  
  
I can hear typing, and I can almost see his fingers flying nimbly and precisely over the keys as he looks for another way into the storage area. -Hmm, I'm not seeing anything,- Snake, he says. -Nothing on the floor plan, anyway. Do you think they're waiting for something?-  
  
-You tell me,- I say. There's a reason he's the brains of this organization and not me.  
  
-Hold on a second,- he says, his tiny avatar following habits Otacon does himself in real life and pushing his glasses a little further back on his nose. -I think I've found something. There seems to be a lot of activity going on near where Metal Gear is being stored. It's about three hundred some feet south of where you are now, in a little room on the left of the hallway. Can you see anything from where you are now, Snake?-  
  
I peer down the hallway, even using my scope, but I can't see any activity. -Huh...negative. Wait... someone is coming out into the hallway. I can't tell if it's a Patriot guard or a Liberty man...- Zooming in to maximum, I try to identify the uniform on the man I can see leaving the room at the end of the hall. But from the way the man is peering around the corner furtively, I can already guess that he's a Liberty man. The zoom on the scope is at full now, and if I strain, I can make out the logo matching the ones on the men I encountered upstairs. It's a bit hard to tell in the darkness of the hallway, but I'm sure of it now. -That's definitely someone from the Sons of Liberty,- I inform Otacon grimly. -How the hell did they get down here anyway?-  
  
-I'm not sure. Unless there's some sort of a cargo elevator or something that's not on the floor plan, I can't imagine how they did it,- Otacon replies. There's a pause, and the Liberty man motions back into the room. Within seconds, a whole group of them, about five in number, exit the room and head down the hallway and through the double doors blocking the hall from the hangar bay where the metal gear was being stored. Another group of five follows a few seconds later. Interesting and fairly effective tactic. -Wait, I think I've found it,- Otacon says suddenly, his voice tinny in my ear. -There's a ventilation shaft running through the building. They must have tapped into it somewhere. It connects both levels, and there's an exit in that room.-  
  
-And they came down one by one?- Another group heads toward the hangar. It seems pretty unlikely, but I've seen some other groups do worse.  
  
-It looks that way. I can't think of any other way they might have gotten down there. It looks like they're all heading toward the hangar.-  
  
A fourth group detaches from the room, and I have to wonder even with all this manpower, how do they think they're going to get this thing out of here? Are they planning on taking out all the Patriots guarding the damn thing and then make their break for it? It wouldn't be exceptionally difficult to get a metal gear out of here, since the area the building is stationed in is pretty well empty, but transporting it is still and issue, as is the fact that the Patriots here are guarding a metal gear and probably have a lot of anti-intruder methods of fighting. They might even be able to blow the whole thing sky high, if things get desperate enough. I don't expect them to though. The Patriots are too well organized to let a group like this just take one of their new models of metal gear out from under their noses.  
  
-How many are left in that room?- I ask Otacon, the number being indecipherable on my radar. -I'm going to follow them in. Looks like they managed to get all the sentries out of this area somehow for the time being, and the door is pretty heavy duty and looks like it can be locked down. This might be my only chance to get in there.-  
  
Otacon takes a brief moment to check his radar, and I can hear his pencil tapping thoughtfully on the display. -About nine or ten, he replies. Two more groups then,- I guess. -How are you going to follow them in?-  
  
I look up through the dim corridor and realize why it's so damn dark in here--the lights seem to have all been shot out or turned off somehow. Like someone had cut the power. In fact, that was fairly likely; more likely than the lights having been shot out anyway, simply because the Liberty men have just made it down there. If they had shot the lights out, I would have seen them do so. -It's pretty damn dark down here,- I explain to Otacon. -I think they cut the power to the lights here or something. I should be all right if I'm quiet.- And being quiet is what I do best. -I'll go in with the next group, that way they'll keep the door open after me.-  
  
-Good luck,- and Otacon cuts the connection so I can concentrate on getting into that room.  
  
As I move forward, away from the cover of the shadows I was in and along directly behind the last group, I start to think about this 'Project JP-5786' character. Is he here? Have I already seen him? And why does the number sequence of five seven eight six sound so goddamn familiar? It's like I've seen that number sequence somewhere else and stored it away in my mind somewhere, but I can't for the life of me remember what it could be. Otacon hasn't said anything about it, and I can probably assume that means that the numbers mean nothing to him.  
  
And then there's the whole 'JP' issue. What's that supposed to mean anyway? That sounds somewhat familiar to me as well, but not as much as the number sequence that follows. And it's really kind of pissing me off. It's like I should know exactly what's going on here and I can't figure it out because I can't remember where I've seen that number before. /Five seven eight six.../ What the hell does that mean? And why do I feel like if I could remember why this was so important that this mission might be a whole lot easier? I'm probably just trying to beat myself up more for forgetting. I don't believe in premonitions or superstitions or all of that.  
  
I trail the last Liberty man in this group by a few yards, darting in and out of cover up to the door itself. As I suspected, they leave the door open for the last group, and I'm able to slip into the next room undetected, and then slip away into the shadows before anyone notices that I'm even there. The next group will be following shortly, and hiding myself from them is just as essential. A large crate a few meters to my left will work excellently, and I'm able to conceal myself from the entrance without problem. A moment later, the last group comes in and, just as I suspected, they seal the door quite effectively before slipping away after the rest of the group.  
  
It isn't until this point until I can get a good look around the storage hangar I'm in. The one entrance to the bay is the one the Liberty men and I entered through, and the entire room is shrouded in darkness. I suppose no one is around the damn metal gear at this hour anyway, though the situation seems a little bit too open. /It's a trap for the Liberty men,/ I remind myself. /That's why there's no one here and the lights are turned down./ I crouch further behind the crate and strain my eyes, searching around the hangar. A set of night vision goggles would be nice about right now. I can't even see the new metal gear model.  
  
My codec beeps, and I switch it on automatically. -Snake, can you see metal gear from where you are?- Otacon's voice came, distorted only slightly, to my ear.  
  
I look around again, straining to see through the darkness, but even with my scope, the situation is pretty hopeless. It occurs to me that I've lost sight of the Liberty men as well. Carefully, I dart forward a bit more, into the relative concealment of another crate, as they seem to be littering the area. Still, I can see nothing. -No, it's too dark in here,- I reply mentally, wincing at the sound echoing in my own ears as it transmitted over the nanomachines, even though no one but myself can hear it. -A pair of night vision goggles would be nice, or some infrared---  
  
I cut myself off shortly as motion catches my eye. I turn back toward the door and I can make out a number of armed guards filing in front of the hangar's only exit. The thought makes me uneasy, despite the fact that it's not entirely unexpected. I'm willing to bet these aren't Liberty guards ensuring their escape route either. The Patriots are closing in on their prey, and once again, I get to sit here and watch, doing my best to remain out of sight.  
  
Otacon has gone silent on the other end of the codec transmission. He has gotten used to the dropped conversations by now, since I tend to get myself into situations where I need to be concentrating on other things happening than Otacon chatting away on the other end of the line. I've gone so far as to switch the codec to standby so that I didn't have to listen to him anymore, if something happened and he didn't notice, though he's usually pretty good about that. The first time I stopped talking to him, it scared the shit out of him and he yelled at me for a week following the incident, but he's used to it now, and I'm able to leave the codec on, indicating that I'll talk to him again in a moment.  
  
-They're closing the trap,- I murmur. -Looks like...three or four sentries guarding the only exit, and they're all armed. Can't see what they're equipped with from here. But I'm will to bet money that they're not Liberty men.-  
  
-I see them,- Otacon returns quickly, and again I can hear the slight drumming as he taps his pencil eraser on the radar. -But that's strange...apart from the ones by the door; I don't see any other Patriots in the room with you. I don't /think/ the radar is malfunctioning...but they have /something/ planned that they're pinning you guys in for. They have to have more than three men for that, don't they?-  
  
-I don't like the sound of that,- I grunt. -Three men aren't going to hold off twenty-odd Sons of Liberty either, metal gear or no. They must think they've got this in the bag.-  
  
Otacon sighs slightly, and I can relate. Getting myself caught in the web with the Liberty men was never really part of the plan. -And if the Patriots think they've got this in the bag,- he says, sounding worried, -then they probably do.- He's right. When the Patriots plan something, they plan it down to the second, and they plan it accurately. They make room for every possible change of plan, every last detail that might be missed by someone else. The Sons of Liberty are playing right into a trap and everyone knows it except for them. I wouldn't be surprised if the Patriots know /I'm/ here, though I've managed to spring one on them once or twice before.  
  
There was really nothing to do at this point but wait. Too much movement would have me seen, and it really doesn't matter who sees me if that happens. Right now, I don't want to piss off either side. Moving closer to where the metal gear had to be would risk the Liberty men sighting me and moving toward the door would alert the Patriots. Moving would accomplish nothing at this point anyway, since I can't even see the goddamn metal gear.  
  
-I don't like this, Otacon,- I grumble. -What are they waiting for? Signal flares?- I don't like waiting, especially when I know I'm about to get caught in someone else's trap. Since it's going to happen anyway, it may as well happen sooner rather than later. Then I don't have to sit around and wonder what the hell is going to happen and when it's going to happen. It's the waiting that does it, speculation of what might be coming and working oneself up to that point, and that's the worst part. Then you're all jumpy before the action even starts, and that's bad too.  
  
And then, rather suddenly, all hell breaks loose.  
  
It's probably about the worst thing that can happen for me when it actually happens, but I manage to get lucky somehow. All the lights are suddenly lit, blazing down on me and the other twenty-some intruders in the hangar bay, momentarily blinding me with its ferocity. Fortunately, though, it's a trap for the Liberty men, and it does the same thing to them. So while I throw my arms over my eyes and attempt to regain vision, I can be assured that they are doing the same. I can hear someone yelling orders frantically in a voice that sounds curiously familiar and leaves me wondering once again about the identity of the leader of this group.  
  
When I can finally see again, I note that since I was behind the crate, I haven't been seen by the Patriots guarding the door (whom I notice have quite smug expressions on their faces and are unaffected by the sudden influx of light) or the Sons of Liberty, who seem to be sprinting for some kind of cover now. But all of this is taken in secondarily, instinctually, after observing the main part of the hangar bay which is as impressive as it is disturbing. My eyes travel up and I almost can't believe what I'm seeing.  
  
-Snake, what's going on?!- Otacon is demanding in my ear, and I get the feeling he's been trying to get me to answer that for the past couple of minutes. Whoops.  
  
-They turned all the lights on and.../shit/,- I growl savagely through the codec, barely taking notice of the scurrying of the other men in the room to look for some sort of safety or an exit or something. Things have suddenly gotten a whole lot worse. -Otacon, I don't believe this. When was this metal gear supposed to be activated?!-  
  
A pause. He can tell this is serious, I never get /this/ excited. -It's not scheduled to be complete until next week,- he answers. -Functional, yes. But the weapon system has its final check next Wednesday. What's going on, Snake?-  
  
-It's gone,- I reply flatly, staring at the empty space where the new model should be. -It's fucking /gone/, Otacon.-  
  
-What?!-  
  
-There's /no/ metal gear.-  
  
--  
  
A/N: Sorry for the strange formatting. won't let me keep things the way I wrote them with brackets. The dashes are terribly annoying, I know. ::sigh::  
  
I'm aware that Snake is pretty out of character, especially at the beginning, but this is the first real MGS Snake-centered fanfiction I've written. I've only written him for drabbles and role-plays so far, and I started this fic a while ago. I hope he gets to be a little further in character in the upcoming chapters.  
  
Also, I think I messed up the JP-5786 thing a few times. If it says 5876 anywhere, I'm sorry. It's supposed to say 5786. I think I fixed it all, and yes, it is important.  
  
Comments or questions? Either email me at chichiri (underscore) is (underscore) hot at hotmail dot com, or leave a review. I'd be more than happy to answer any questions. :3  
  
As usual, none of this stuff is mine. It all belongs to Konami and Hideo Kojima. My thanks to them for giving me something to write about. 


End file.
